


Delia

by Unovis



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Food, Jealousy, Multi, Shoes, Spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old-fashioned Methos-is-jealous-of-Duncan & Girl story, in Springtime, in Seacouver. Not serious in the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delia

“I don’t like her.”

Amanda tapped sugar from a strawberry and frowned at it. Methos licked his thumb.

“Who? Delia?”

“Deeeeeeliah.” The bowl, the spoon, the berries were reflected in her sunglasses. She put the strawberry in her mouth and grimaced. “Too seedy, too sweet. Duncan should know better.”

Methos shrugged. Amanda should know better. He stirred his coffee. It was cold. It tasted bitter. He should know better than to pair strawberries with coffee. He didn’t like Delia, either. “None of our business.”

“Of course it is. She says ‘anyhoodle.’ She calls him ‘Honey-bun.’ She calls you ‘Sweetie!’”

“You call me Sweetie,” said Methos. Actually, Deeeeeeliah called him Sweetie-Pie. She clacked her long, pink fingernails at him and said _Oh, Sweetie-Pie, don’t mind me._ He liked it when Amanda called him Sweetie, especially when she didn’t mean it.

“Don’t try to be fair. You know you can’t stand her.”

Methos shrugged. Amanda sighed. Behind her sunglasses she could have rolled her eyes. Or squinted. He liked it when she squinted at him. If he thought about it hard enough, he … “Why do you care? I thought you were leaving town.”

She pursed her lips at him. He liked her lips. Her slender wrists, her fingertips. What had come over him? A breeze blew across the table top, stirring blossoms on the tree above. Oh, yes. Spring. Methos smiled, over his bitter, cold coffee. He liked Spring.

“She won’t last. He’s not a fool.”

“Sweetie, all men are fools when it comes to love. Or…” she waved vaguely. “Foolery.”

“She doesn’t look like foolery. Or fun. She’s…”

“Sticky.”

“Tinkly.” Delia wore dresses with ruffled décolletages. The breasts revealed were round and firm and hiked up high. Her waist was small and always belted, behind buckles and grommets and glinting, dangling charms. She wore rhinestone butterflies. She wore huge earrings that twisted and bracelets (and once an anklet) that clinked. She painted her toenails with little designs. She wore strappy, high shoes with wedge heels, and only came up to Duncan’s shoulder. Her hair was Pomeranian apricot. She wore perfume that smelled like fruit. “She’d take forever to undress. He’d have to number all the parts.”

“I think there’s a plan on the box. Do you think he has? Undressed her?”

Methos tried to imagine Delia naked. It was difficult. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen her knees. Or noticed the contour of her hips. All he could recall were flickery surfaces. She was like a celluloid doll, a carnival prize. She could have a cardboard tube up her middle, for all they knew. He wondered, suddenly, bizarrely, if she painted her nipples. Did women still do that? He had, long ago. He’d gilded them once, as a treat for a customer who made a ceremony of pulling the studs from his linen shirts. His hand came up, unbidden, to tweak himself. Amanda sniffed. “Good grief. You’re picturing it.”

“I can’t. There must be something he likes.” He could picture Duncan naked, easily enough, from memory and intuition, from clothes that draped and fell and spoke eloquently of the treasures underneath. Duncan’s breast, Duncan’s nipples and knees, the contour of Duncan’s hips were plain to him. He could picture Duncan’s cock, happily enough, though he’d never seen it proud. Proud and ringed with gold…

“Not her mind,” said Amanda.

“Maybe she only takes it out when they’re alone.” Duncan, naked, would be a golden bear beside his doll. If he fell on her, he’d smash her flat; nothing left but a wreckage of ruffles and trinkets and popped plastic on the rug. “Maybe she has a hidden talent.”

“Baton twirling? Bird calls?” Amanda flicked open her phone to check the time. “Hm. I should run. Investigate, dear heart. Unravel the mystery.”

“Ask, if you’re so curious. Let him sing her praises.”

“He won’t to me. Make a pass. See what he does.”

“I…wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“With something shiny on a string, I imagine.” Amanda dropped a bill on the table and closed her bag. A blossom fell into her hair. Methos smiled.

“Stay.” He stretched out his hand and stroked her wrist with a finger. “Let’s amuse ourselves.”

“All of you.” She smiled and stood, she leaned across and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you before I go. Have something to tell me.” And she left. The breeze was soft, the tree rustled overhead. Methos rubbed his thumb across his breast. Spring.

***

“Come with us,” said Duncan. “I have extra tickets.”

“It’s a play,” said Delia: daisy-dotted, deli-yellow Delia. She batted her lashes at Methos. Her pastel-powdered, black-fringed eyes looked like butterflies. “But outside. We have a blanket.”

“Just like in the movies,” said Methos.

“But outside. With a blanket,” said Delia. She batted again and curled both hands and all ten nails around Duncan’s bicep.

“He can sit on the grass,” said Duncan. “It’s _Guys and Dolls_.”

“With singing,” said Delia.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Methos. He’d spotted the basket and the cooler in the car. And of course, he needed something to tell Amanda. Preferably overnight, preferably making her laugh. He could mimic Delia. She could be MacLeod. Oh…

“Close your mouth, you’ll catch a fly. Come on. I want to get a good spot and wish Danny luck.” Danny, it seems, was some factotum with the Seacouver Players, a beneficiary of the MacLeod community fund. Methos climbed into the back seat, Duncan secured the top, and they were off. Duncan had found another black Ford convertible. It suited him. Delia looked at home in it, stretching out her arm across the top of the backrest, fingernails against his collar. Methos flashed back to the ’50s. She needed a scarf, to complete the image. Delia didn’t wear scarves; they’d cover or catch in her baubles, he supposed. He didn’t know what role he played, sitting behind, hands clasped between his knees. The comic relief? The extra guy? As if reading his mind, Delia looked around at him.

“Do you have a girl, Sweetie-Pie? We can pick her up. Can’t we, Hon?”

“Adam doesn’t have a girl,” said Duncan. “Or a boy,” he added, anticipating. Delia wrinkled her nose.

“You never know,” she said.

“I could have a girl,” said Methos, indignantly. “Or a fella, even.”

“Or a doll,” said Delia. “Gays and Dolls! Like the play!”

“Guys,” said Duncan. He turned and smiled at her.

“ _Musical_ guys,” said Delia. She blinked encouragingly at Methos. “You could meet a cute one there.”

“Adam doesn’t like cute,” said Duncan. He fluttered, Methos _swore_ he fluttered his eyelashes back at Delia. “Unlike me.”

“Is there beer?” asked Methos. Or a sword? He pulled a longneck from the cooler and wrung the cap from its head. _Cute. I could show you cute. Ur-cute. Like strychnine, cute._

***

There was a blanket, all right, and cushions for three. The picnic hamper was pleasingly heavy when he handed it all to Duncan. Delia carried a wine bag, leaving the cooler for Methos to lug. Fine by him. He hoisted it onto his shoulder, making the muscles in his arm bulge and stretching his T-shirt across his chest. Delia nodded approvingly. Duncan winked. Methos lowered the cooler to his hip. Then lifted it again. _Cute._

They tramped through the scattering of early arrivals unfolding chairs and spreading blankets and setting out food and drink. It would have been fried chicken and potato salad half a century ago, with bottles of Coca-Cola or a thermos jug of lemonade. Potato chips. Deviled eggs. Methos hadn’t had a good deviled egg in…a while. Or crispy, home made, buttermilk-soaked fried chicken. Duncan never made him fried chicken. Amanda couldn’t cook. Poor Methos. Delia stopped short in front of him, wobbling on her shoes, and Methos bumped into her. Duncan had found a nice patch of grass, on a rise of ground in easy sight of the bandshell and stage. Duncan set down his load, then shook out the blanket. Delia teetered back, keeping her toes clear. Methos put the cooler down gently, not to bruise the beer. He looked Delia over again, trying to build an idea of her body underneath that mélange of shirring, chains, dangles, and petaled appliqués. She caught him staring. “Can you make fried chicken?” he blurted.

She looked surprised and vaguely insulted. “Duncan made a noodle,” she said. “We’d’a stopped for a bucket if you’d said.”

“Sesame noodles,” said Duncan. “Prosciutto and arugula sandwiches; blood orange, garbanzo, and red onion salad with…”

Methos raised his hand. “Fine, no. Just popped into my head.”

“I don’t do fried, Sweetie,” said Delia. “Hon, help me down.” She held out a pearly claw to Duncan, who steadied her descent to a cushion on the blanket. Methos thought it would have been easier if she’d taken off her shoes; he’d like to see her undo the straps and buckles with those nails. Did she need help to dress? Her heels were soft and smooth. Pedicured. It took a village.

“Delia doesn’t need to cook,” said Duncan. He dropped to squat on his heels next to her and tapped her nose, playfully. Her earrings chimed. “Why don’t you unpack the basket and I’ll find Danny. Adam will help.” He stood up. “And you can both look pretty for the people.”

Delia giggled. Methos wondered if Duncan had lost his mind.

***

It was his chance to talk to her, now. To plumb the mystery. Methos watched Duncan walk away. Always a beguiling sight; now, in the setting sun, striding between blankets and around bouncy-baby chairs and chatting lovers of open-air musical theater, he could have been a warrior pacing his army’s camp. Methos sighed. Where the hell was the man’s sword?

“You like?” asked Delia.

“Very, very…what?”

“Pie, Sweet-Pea. Do-you-like-pie?” Delia patted the now-open basket. She was staring at him. Or she was looking him steadily in the chin. Cheek. Nose. She was fixed on something in his facial area that didn’t include his eyes.

“I-like-pie,” said Methos. “I mean…yer. Pie. What kind?”

“I don’t know. It has a top on it.” She blinked at him. Methos saw her eyelashes were streaked with tiny stripes of gold. “Duncan pie.”

“I like Duncan pie,” said Methos, idiotically.

“Well all right,” said Delia. She seemed pleased. They nodded at each other.

Night fell. Slowly.

***

“Nggggggg…aah.”

Methos splatted face-first onto the sheet…the rumpled, damp, sheet…and groaned.

“Well. That was interesting,” said Amanda. She braced a spike-heeled shoe on his ass cheek and corkscrewed the black knobby glass wand out of his rosy hole. He tried to hiss, at her, at the spike heel, at the jolty things the knobs were doing on their way out, but only managed spit bubbles.

“What do we say?” asked Amanda. Archly.

“Muahwmwmwm. Mwm,” said Methos.

“You’re welcome,” said Amanda. She stood naked in her shoes by the bed, one knee bent to her chest, the greater to give her foot leverage over Methos’s stiletto-dimpled rump. She tossed the black glass probe onto a towel on the rug, where it clinked against other interesting things. “So, Happy Unbirthday to you. Do you have anything for me?”

“Oh, God. Gi’me a minute.”

“Aw. No.” Amanda jiggled her heel and smacked the fleshy round smartly with her palm. “I _will_ find one of those in sparkle pink. With rhinestone roses and unicorns.”

“Daisies,” moaned Methos. “And dangles.”

“Not the D word,” warned Amanda.

“On Delia,” sighed Methos. _Crack!_ went Amanda’s hand.

Methos blew a weak raspberry. “Can’t do without it.” He reached back and patted her ankle. “C’mere.”

“You stain these shoes, you pay for them.”

“Then get your toe out of there and come here. I want to look at you.”

“Hmph.” Amanda lowered her foot, not without scraping the stiletto heel sharply down the curve of Methos’s cheek. She watched, he could feel, the white line rise to a pink welt dotted with blood. She waited for Immortal healing to restore the canvas to its pristine plump texture and hue. She waited for Methos to turn his head to see, then she walked, slowly, elegantly, to the far side of the bed.

“Nice,” said Methos. He rolled over, making room, and she laid down on her side, facing him. Air stirred the curtains over the open window. The early afternoon light rippled across their bodies. Methos smiled. He loved looking at Amanda, a delight that never flagged over the centuries. For her own amusement, for someone--not him, Methos was sure--she’d trimmed her pubic hair into a lightning bolt. Or, lordy, had it done to her. “I love watching your breasts move,” he said. They trembled with her breath. Pink tipped and white, like the blossoms on the trees. Around her neck she wore a thin platinum chain, strung with uncut black diamonds.

She pulled up her knee and placed her foot on his crotch. The sole of her long-toed shoe pushed his cock up, against his belly. The heel rested below his sac. “These are Borgo degli Ulivi black calf T-strap pumps lined in silver,” she said. “The heels are 8 cm long, with custom steel tips. You know my size.”

“I do,” he said.

“Note the straps that circle and expose the heel.”

“Duly noted,” he said.

“Note the exquisitely framed and pointed toe.”

“Admirably noted,” he said. “Delia would weep.”

At the D word, Amanda pushed her heel slightly up; Methos inhaled.

“Noted,” he said. “But…”

“Spill,” said Amanda.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I don’t get it. I still don’t know.” The pressure of her sole and toe increased; he showed his teeth. “If you think I’ll beg you to stop that, you’re wrong.” She gave a playful twist of her ankle and he arched his back. Happy cock, trodden by Amanda’s Borgo degli Ulivis.

“Did you even ask?”

“Do you do this with Duncan?” He wanted to picture it now, picture lovely Amanda just like this with the terra incognita that was Duncan in bed. Duncan lying back, a rolling landscape of gold skin and dark hair, straddled by Amanda; Duncan’s breast and rose brown nipple, raked by Amanda’s heel; Duncan bent over his legs, forehead to knees, skewered by Amanda’s new glass toy… that is, in the spirit of accuracy, Duncan skewered by Methos’s new toy; or better yet, Duncan skewering… Pain jabbed his scrotum and he yelped.

“Focus, Sweetie.”

“I asked. Him, her; I watched, I asked, I endured an excruciating night of amateur theatrics with _children_ and _bugs_ and _cute_ and Duncan’s idea of alfresco dining; I _talked to Delia_... **ah!**...and I got nothing. No insight. No answer. Nichevo, zip, nada. No damn idea, except he likes her. I don’t think she’s had him, if it matters.” It mattered. It mattered to him. From the shift of Amanda’s shoe, it mattered to her, too. “Why do you care?” he asked. _Please, don’t care,_ he thought. He reached out and traced the lightning bolt with his forefinger, carefully. “Did you do that for Duncan?”

She didn’t slap his hand away. She squinted at him; delighted, he pressed his luck, his finger, lower. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Old enough.” He stroked, he circled.

“Whose permission do you need?” He twisted; she licked her lips.

“But Duncan… **aaah!** ”

There was more than one D word, now.

***

Methos lied. He lied to Amanda, which was a cardinal sin. He lied to Duncan, which was…venial, at worst; habit, at best. He probably lied to Delia, but he wasn't listening.

***

Delia’s method of unpacking the picnic basket was to lift the lid and point at items for Methos to take out and arrange on the blanket. He admired, grudgingly, her economy of effort.

The basket was filled with covered containers and jars. Did Duncan appreciate Delia for her appetite? For her taste? In food?

“Do you like this?” he asked Delia, opening a bowl.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Some…kind of hummus.”

“What’s a hummus?”

“This,” said Methos, showing her again.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Mashed chickpeas,” said Methos. “With, uh, chunks. Calamata olives?”

“OK then,” said Delia. “No. What’s that?” She pointed at a square box and Methos took it out and opened it. “Sandwiches?” she identified, dubiously.

“Ciabatta,” said Methos. “This must be the prosciutto and arugula.” He peeled back a layer of bread. Delia wrinkled her nose. Methos liked both prosciutto and arugula, the musky salt of the ham and the bite of the lettuce, and the fleshy resistance of ciabatta bread. Duncan believed, persistently and incorrectly, that Methos liked hummus as much as he did. But what did Delia like? Not the orange and onion salad, though the colors appealed. She seemed disenchanted with the “noodle.” She pointed to the next bowl, which had a loopy flower drawn on the lid.

“Yours,” said Methos, with certainty.

“Darling,” said Delia, jingling. “What is it?”

“Ambrosia salad,” said Methos.

“Mini-marshmallows! And coconut!”

Also marked, also pretty, was a lettuce-lined box of four cherry tomatoes filled with tiny shrimp salad. Would it have killed the man to devil an egg? Finally, Methos produced a flowered drink container from the cooler. Delia guessed milkshake. Methos shook his head. “It’s rosewater lassi. You’ll like it.”

“Well. Thank you, Doll.”

“Thank Duncan,” said Methos, setting the Princess food in front of her. She dimpled and twinkled and clinked. Methos wondered if some part of her costume would light up in the dark.

Silence fell. Methos contemplated the mysteries of the human heart and tongue. Delia straightened her earrings and bracelets. Amanda’s cryptic suggestion that he “make a pass” was dismissed out of hand. He’d sooner shove his face in a frangipani bush. “Where did you meet Duncan?” he asked her. Start small and build.

“Church,” said Delia. With a straight face.

“How…erm. Do you like him?”

“Of course I do, Shug. Don’t you?”

Methos sighed. “I mean, like-like. In the Spring, a young man’s fancy...”

“Oh, Sweetie-Pie, don’t fret. We’ll find you someone. What about him?”

“No, I didn’t…hm. Him?”

“No, Sweetie, he’s with her. Him. Blue-shirt him.”

“Oh. No. Thanks.”

“Too skinny?”

“Too fey.”

“Like Dunaway?”

“Sort of.”

“So, you like big? Like him?”

Methos didn’t look. “Do you?”

“I’m a girl, Sweetie.” Delia shook out her skirt, setting a field of daisies nodding.

“Duncan’s big,” said Methos.

“Duncan’s a sugar bear,” said Delia. “You want a Duncan?”

The buzz set his scalp on fire.

“Talking about me?” asked Duncan, looming over the blanket.

“We like pie,” said Methos, desperately.

“Duncan pie,” giggled Delia. “Adam’s looking at boys. But no Dunaways.”

“Boys, eh?”

Duncan dropped to a crouch, close to Methos; knife close, Methos noted. He suppressed a flinch, a shiver, and grinned. Or something.

“Delia's playing match-maker. Nice spread--expecting an army?” A salad-chomping, noodle-noshing, sugar-shocked army?

“He likes them big,” said Delia. “Like him?”

Duncan didn't look. He reached across Methos for a plate. “Adam isn't looking for a boy,” he rumbled. His arm crowded Methos, who couldn't suppress a shiver, a flinch. Duncan grinned. Or something.

***

They ate. Delia giggled, Duncan explained Damon Runyan's Broadway, and Methos chewed his musky, peppery, fleshy sandwich and drank his beer.

At least Delia didn't talk during the play. She clinked, slightly behind the beat, to the livelier songs. Methos finished the beer halfway through "Adelaide's Lament." He sagged, he slumped down, to lie across his cushion, to stare at the dimly visible stars. They were preferable to the lurching postures, the earnest grimaces onstage. Delia's perfume--or the scent of ambrosia--crept over him like kudzu. Duncan's knee pressed his shoulder. At Intermission, he'd escape. He closed his eyes.

He blinked awake when Duncan kicked him.

“’M not,” he mumbled.

“I had a dog who snored like that,” said Duncan, bending over Methos to rattle the empty cooler. “Did you leave nothing?”

“Drink your bonny lassi,” said Methos. The stage was bright and empty. The crowd chattered and stirred in the dark. “Where's Delia?”

“She wanted to wash her hands,” said Duncan. “I imagine there's a line.”

Intermission. Escape. Methos sighed and stretched, turning on his side. Duncan leaned over him again, reaching for something else, and Methos closed his eyes. Duncan smelled like…like prosciutto and arugula tasted. “Why?” Methos asked.

“Why what?” Duncan settled behind him; in what attitude and posture, Methos couldn't tell.

“Why Delia? Why, on God’s green earth, why Delia?”

Duncan chuckled, disconcertingly close to his ear. “Don't you like her?”

“Of course I do,” he lied.

“Amanda doesn't,” said Duncan. “I thought you shared.”

“What…” Duncan's arm curved over Methos's side, to rest on his waist, and Methos's tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

“It’s Spring,” said Duncan. His hand slid down, across Methos's hip. A muted recording of the overture seeped from the loudspeakers, across the lawn. "Luck Be a Lady," circled through Methos's numbed brain. “Life is short.” Duncan's knuckles brushed Methos's stomach, rucking up his T-shirt's hem. “Life is sweet,” he breathed. Methos held himself still. A firefly curveted before his nose. “Like Delia,” said Duncan. His fingers slid beneath the waistband of Methos's jeans and rested there.

“Um,” said Methos. The firefly blinked. Duncan's fingers remained, real and warm. “Just…sweet? _That_ sweet? Better than Amanda?”

“Or you,” said Duncan. His fingers flexed and slid down.

“Or I? Or M-m-m?” Duncan pressed his hand down Methos's jeans, pressed Methos back against, against Duncan's body, full length behind him.

“Because,” buzzed Duncan, in his ear, through his flesh. “Delia is happy.” Duncan's nails scraped the root of Methos's shaft, his hand hard and broad and flat. “And you're jealous.”

Methos gulped.

“Hi-dee, Hon,” sang Delia. “You there?”

And Methos was unhanded, undone. And Duncan rose to his knees, to his feet, to guide Delia in. And Methos rolled away, aroused and defeated, to crawl across the blanketed battlefield.

“…to wash his hands,” he heard Duncan say. An infant banged a squeak toy on his head.

***

“You're sure you know nothing?” Amanda demanded. She rocked her shoe.

He pushed his fingers deeper. “Just…life is sweet.”

“A mystery,” huffed Amanda.

“Like... **ah!**...And **ah!** ”

“Read your mind.” Amanda squirmed delightfully.

***

Amanda was gone, wrapped in a vague air of reproach. As vague an air as those shoes would allow. She’d slid her panties, black lace and silk panties, over her shoes and up her long calves and above her sweet knees and her smooth thighs, up, up, and over the lightning bolt aimed at someone else. Methos sighed.

Amanda put in an extra set of earrings before she left. They were square-cut sapphire studs, high on the curve of her ears. She cut their holes swiftly with the tip of her dagger and watched the small sparks of healing around the platinum mounts. Methos winced, though he knew better. She wiped a small drop of blood away with a handkerchief from his top dresser drawer. He’d have licked it off if she’d let him.

She left and he remained, naked on the bed, the cool air playing over him. He stretched his hand flat on his belly. He felt his skin under his palm. He felt his hairs prickle and shift under his fingertips. Where Duncan had laid his hand.

He closed his eyes. “She’s _sweet_ ,” he said, in a mocking falsetto. “She’s _happy_. And you’re _jealous_.”

Well, stick a sunflower up his ass.

***

Without Amanda--where she’d gone and for how long, she didn’t say and he hadn’t asked--there was no need for Methos to pursue MacLeod’s latest fancy. No reason to join their irritating company, no point in suffering their conversation. He had other things to occupy his time.

 

“What do you mean, _jealous_?”

“Don’t you have a home?” Duncan dropped his pack on the floor and shut the door behind him.

“You’re awfully trusting. I could be an enemy.”

Methos hitched up on his elbow, against the couch arm. It was his third perch of the long evening, waiting for Duncan to come home, playing cat at the mousehole of the loft. On the floor, curious, rearranging shelves of boring books. On the bed, curiouser, provocatively posed. On the couch, curious-est, with a sandwich and a beer. There was no scent of Delia in the sheets or cushions; no delicates in the laundry hamper, no alien toiletries on the bathroom shelves. No stray sequins or beads or lipstick smears. No interlocking hearts drawn on notebook backs or laptop sleeve.

He had stripped himself naked before posing on the bed. Dropped trou and wriggled out of his T-shirt and sweater (no belt, no underwear, shoes long since shucked in the middle of the rug), sliding his hands down his waist and flanks and crawling across the silky coverlet. New. Puffy. Shades of light violet and green, which didn’t seem right for Duncan. He rolled onto his stomach, delighting his cock, and contemplated the view from the vast bed. The loft was familiar; he’d spent hours, days, nights, weeks here over the years. But it looked...lighter. Things were missing from the shelves, longtime things, familiar things. A damascened silver vase. A dueling pistol. A yellowed globe, carved from a ball of ivory. An iron manacle. A bronze dancing Shiva. Maybe more. There was a green favrile glass bottle where a map had been. A small rose bowl. A clay bird. The shelves had been dusted, the floor recently waxed. _Spring cleaning._ His hand was fisted around his cock, unconsciously, automatically, as he looked around. And then down at it, less delighted than before ( _It’s Spring. Life is short. Life is sweet. And so is she_ ), and he’d sighed and let go and slid backside-first off the bed.

By now--by the time he’d perched on the couch, he was half in his clothes, half in Duncan’s (his T, Duncan’s sweatpants, gray, and loosely tied), and randy as a stoat. Hence the sandwich, hence the beer. Horny made him hungry. Was he? For Duncan? Or was it only bees-do-it, birds-do-it seasonal affect? Spring springing. Sap rising.

He frowned at Duncan, the highly decoratively and thoroughly dressed Duncan, who shrugged. “The lock was picked and not relocked; Amanda doesn’t leave scratches. You’re clumsy.”

“I could be a clumsy enemy.”

“If you like,” agreed Duncan. “Is that the last Moosehead?” He bent into the refrigerator, dropping leafy things into the vegetable drawer. Stretching his jeans across his curving bottom most appealingly. It was long dark outside. He must have hit the farmers’ market that afternoon.

“Where the _hell_ have you been? What the hell are you dressed for?”

He was in a Western shirt the likes of which Methos had not beheld on the body MacLeod. It was an electric blue with white piping and appliquéd shapes...a wagon wheel? spurs?...on the back yoke. And, when Duncan turned, a bottle of beer in his hand, white pearl snaps. His jeans (tight jeans) were belted and buckled with a large engraved silver oval; and his boots were pointed and Cuban heeled.

“Square dancing,” he said.

“...with Delia,” Methos chorused with him. Duncan smiled and swigged from his bottle. Leaning on the fridge door, fist on his cocked hip, he looked like a bunkhouse pinup. Uh. Cartoon.

“She says hi, Sweetie-Pie. You should come some time. She’s still spotting potential dates.” He crossed his arms and his smile widened to an evil grin. “She says you like ’em big. Like me.”

Tight jeans, very tight, and revealing. “Big head? Big arse? Big dick?” Ringed with gold; but surely paint would show through those jeans. His own pants were thankfully loose. He lifted a concealing knee. “In your dreams, cowboy.”

Duncan chuckled. “In yours. Up yours.” The bastard had a sexy laugh. And a lovely broad arse to match. If Methos allowed himself, he’d be quite enjoying his body’s reactions to the sight and sound and presence of MacLeod. Methos tilted up his bottle; and as the beer tickled down his throat, he eyed Duncan’s ridiculous costume from crown to heels. He could, if he were a weaker man, quite enjoy the fantasy of stripping him out of it, piece by clinging piece. Sliding that belt from its loops. Or no, looping that bolo tie in a leash around his balls... He felt a leer spread his lips; his knee shifted. And he felt Duncan’s gaze wash hot across his lap.

Duncan unfolded his arms; he raised his gaze from Methos’s front to meet his eyes; he bit his lip.

“Coming, Shug?” called Delia, up the lift shaft.

“Nooo,” groaned Methos.

“Hi-dee, Adam!” caroled Delia.

Methos raised the arm with the beer over his head; he raised his knee; he laughed, at his damnable luck. “Go,” he told Duncan. “I’ll let myself out.” God protect and preserve his curious cock. God save his sight from Delia dressed to do-si-do.

“Come with?” called Delia.

“Adam’s sick,” called Duncan, back. He grinned, all teeth and tits and Conway Twitty. “Sick as a dog.” He set his beer down with a clank, and pointed his finger at Methos. “Stay!”

“Woof,” Methos said, into his elbow. He heard Duncan sashay to the door, he heard him two-step down the stairs, down, down, to Delia land. He heard the outer door close, echoing in the empty space. The dojo had closed. Duncan had made half-hearted noises about converting it to another antiques shop. Now it was empty and echoing and Methos was alone above it, more alone than before. He did not have a comforting wank on Duncan’s couch, which smelled like Duncan, looking at the beer bottle fresh from Duncan’s mouth sweating on the kitchen counter. He did not linger for details and housekeeping; he abandoned his sandwich and sweater, picked up his shoes, and went sock-footed out into the night, to his car, to his home. He left the doors behind unlocked.

Damn Amanda. Damn her endless string of partners, of ready, seasonal lovers. Damn MacLeod, forever there, for Amanda and not him. Damn that heartless, thoughtless jade, who delighted Methos in his bed and left him for another. Who loved her Duncan freely, breezily, delightfully, then left him, too. MacLeod must know; he mustn’t care, as Methos, never, surely never, cared, and still not caring, packed a bag.

An early morning start, with the bees, with the birds, with the blossoms. Damn Duncan. Damn Amanda. He turned his face to the window, his back to the door, wrapped alone in the middle of his great, cool bed. Oh, right, he thought. Damn Delia.

***

Under the window with its breeze blown curtains, under the night outside and around and above, under an unseen moon, oblivious and invaded he dreamed.

Trees, grass, flowers, sunshine: around Duncan (of course, Duncan), crosslegged on a picnic cloth, unpacking Methos’s duffle bag. He wore the sweatpants Methos had taken, had worn home from the loft. He wore a soft black shirt, open to show his curving chest. His feet were bare. He had jam on his thumb.

Amanda stood there, didn’t she, under a cherry tree. Tall, naked; almost naked. She wore those pointed spike-heeled shoes. Below her belly a lightning bolt of icing ending in a sugar rose. The convertible was parked, of course, in the grass, tall grass brushing its tires and shining hubcaps, all dotted with cherry-pink petals. It gleamed black in the sun. And on its long nose, sat up like a doll on a bed, ruffles spread, a taffeta taffy Miss Muffet on a tuffet, jingling and candy sweet, a goddess on an altar, was Delia.

She sparkled down at Methos, who squatted on bare, brown ground. “Hi-dee Shug,” she sang.

“I warned you,” said Amanda. The thing in Amanda’s hand was rhinestone knobbed with roses and horned things. She twisted her wrist and Methos’s sphincter flinched. Or fluttered. “Ignore her,” said Duncan. “We have pie!”

“Duncan pie!” said Delia. “Sugar pie.”

“Sssssssssssssugar,” hissed Amanda, crawling over the car. Her breasts shook as she dropped onto the hood, her nipples peaked and poison pink. “I could eat you with a spoon,” said Amanda; or maybe Delia, or maybe Duncan. Someone was hungry. Amanda licked her lips. Methos licked his; if this were a dream—(he closed his eyes: if this were a dream, he’d have Amanda between his lips, her pink peaks and sugar rose, her lightning bolt, her fingers and that knobbed glass wand twist-pushing into [he closed his eyes: if this were a dream, that knobbed pink wand would be push-twisting into {he closed his eyes: if this were a dream, Duncan’s jammy thumb would be frosted too, push-pulled into Amanda’s…} Duncan’s…] Methos’s…) 

Immortal Presence rang him till he shook.

“Naughty,” said Delia.

Methos’s eyes were open, it was surely a dream, but Amanda and Duncan were gone. Delia pursed her lips and fluffed her ruffles. Sun from above and behind made her glow. Immortal Delia? Holy Delia? Presence buzzed like sacred bees.

“Why you?” Methos asked. Ask, Why any Goddess? Why Love, Why Desire?

“Silly boy,” she said. Her mouth was smeared with frosting, jam swirled in a glyph on her chin. Something rhinestoned and knobbly nested in her lap. His bottom was cold, the ground was hard. “I got you a sugar bear.” She held out her hand in a gesture he knew. Rise, sinner, and be blessed. He stared, despaired. She clacked her nails. “C’mon sweetie-pie,” she said. “Get up.”

Methos closed his eyes.

“Up!”

“Fuck off,” growled Methos, into his pillow. Not dreaming, now. Not blessed. Not redeemed. Not filled, not fucked, not fed, not loved. Not—“Fuck you, fuck pie, fuck your sugar bear.”

“I told you to stay,” said a voice, deep and dark. A weight fell on the mattress, a thumb drove into his ribs. The Presence he should have known. “I’ll kill you,” Methos promised. “I’ll chicken-fry your heart.” 

“Delia’s right.”

Methos burrowed deeper into the pillow. Fight or suffocate; suffocate or sink his fists and teeth into the tar-baby of Delia-love. Fists and teeth and hardened cock from dreams within dreams. The weight lengthened, stretched out beside him. Invading his space, stealing the cold from his back. Cock be damned, he’d rise and slay. Any second. “Wrong,” he gritted. And made a warding gesture with his hand.

He felt a chuckle buzz against his neck.

If he was not mistaken, and had not lived for a very long time, and had much experience of other bodies in his bed and tucked close against his back, Duncan was… “What are you? Here?” Methos asked, into his pillow and arm. More breath, less anger, than common sense dictated. Curiosity, concupiscence, grilled the cat. The broad, hot hand left his ribs for his breast and squeezed, a good palm-full of wakening flesh. Oh, his breast in Duncan’s hand. His arse curved into Duncan’s—lap? thighs?—his knees nudged up, parted by Duncan’s knees. Duncan’s elbow dug into his hip. Duncan’s teeth, Duncan’s wide wet mouth sucking his throat. Oh goodness, oh Goddess, oh what the holy hell? He covered Duncan’s hand with his, he dragged it hard down his sternum, across his belly, onto his rigid, eager cock. He twisted, he freed his face. He arched his back. “Wrrrrrong!” he growled.

“Rrrrrright!” growled Duncan back, and clutched and shook his fistful of evidence. Reason frayed, blood raced. And oh, cheeks parted, fingers drove, pressure pressed, and, and, enveloped, embraced, engorged, enslicked, embiggened, en-friggety-jiggety-jigged, Methos reached his long arms back to grasp the great fundament MacLeod.

***

He didn’t close his eyes after. Wary of dreams, he stared at Duncan’s hand, splayed on his pillow. There, right there, under his nose and pungent with proof that this had been done. He cleared his throat. “Why…”

“Oh hssht,” said Duncan.

“Say it’s Spring and I’ll gut you. Why…”

“Delia,” said Duncan, and nipped his shoulder with sharp teeth.

“Praise Her,” muttered Methos. He pulled Duncan’s hand against his belly, where the scratches had closed. Sparks enough to scorch the bedding he planned for.

“Praise me,” said Duncan, and squeezed. “That’s my work done. You could have made your move, you lazy sod.”

He shrugged, as best he could in this position. His back was warm, his front was pleasantly cool. The curtains laughed and fluttered, the breeze was sweet. “She works her ways mysteriously.”

“She said I was wasting daylight. She said you were looking for pie.”

“That was pie?” Hell, that was the bakery window he’d had his nose against.

“Words to that effect. You want to argue? You’ve packed.” Duncan rubbed the pad of his thumb over Methos’s nipple. Methos’s mouth watered, for gold or jam.

“Day trip,” said Methos. He held up a finger. “Picnic. Fried chicken.”

“Potato salad. Coca-Cola in the red cooler. T-Bird with the top down. I know.” Duncan’s thumb and finger pinched. Methos pressed back, into slopes and curves. “A day, a week, a year. I sold the dojo to Delia’s church. Pastor Brewster sets up today.”

“You…” Methos dug an elbow into muscle and sheets, twisting round. He got the line of Duncan’s profile, morning lit. Curving lips, warm eyes, damn fine. “And the loft?”

“Let from them, indefinitely. Delia closed the deal. Made a nice percentage for herself.”

“Delia…” can close? Can read? Can hold a pen with those nails? _Goddess_ , Methos chided himself.

“…is my realtor. Be nice.” Duncan pulled speculatively at the linens binding them. “Be grateful. Be good, and I’ll devil your eggs.”

Sunlight and Spring spread across the bed. Cherry petals caught on the screen. Methos lay back and let Duncan pull the sheets apart, bouncing a bit with the effort. His eyes slitted to crescents, his mouth stretching wide, he grinned. Amanda would be _so pleased_.

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on DW in five parts from June 14 2010 to November 28 2012. The original had shiny pictures with each header, too.  
> (I know, Spring shouldn't be capitalized. But it is.)


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